


would die to feel your touch

by mixtapestar



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Intimacy, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), The Intimacy of Brushing/Braiding/Washing Another Person's Hair, Touch-Starved Character gets their hair stroked & gets other kind gentle touches & cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixtapestar/pseuds/mixtapestar
Summary: Eliot does something special for Quentin to make him feel good after he gets through a depressive episode.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	would die to feel your touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).



> For anyone visiting from Bulletproof who doesn't know the fandom, welcome! A couple visuals:  
>   
> (Left to right: Quentin, Teddy, Eliot)
> 
>   
> (Left to right: Eliot, Quentin)
> 
> Background: Quentin and Eliot are both magicians who can perform spells, charms, etc. with their fingers, and they are at 'the mosaic' in this fic. In the show, the two of them traveled back in time to a land called Fillory to fulfill a quest—capture the beauty of all life in a puzzle. They spend their entire lives together there in what winds up being a pocket timeline after they solve it—all you need to know in this fic is that they're still in the middle of their quest, about 5-7 years in.

Quentin goes to Eliot after a string of blank days.

It's not rare, unfortunately, for Quentin to have several blank days in a row these days. Not since they lost Arielle. It's been almost a year, but grief doesn't dry up over time the way other emotions tend to. It lives inside you, burrowed deep inside your ribcage, ready to strike against your heart at any moment. Eliot seems to get it; he lost her too, after all, and Quentin is forever grateful to be here with him.

Every time Quentin pulls himself up out of the fog and lets reality kick back in, he worries that he's scared Eliot away for good this time. That Eliot will have finally seen the darkest part of him and realize how great it was to be unburdened by Quentin's neediness while he withdrew into himself.

But that never happens. Even now, as Quentin comes out of the cottage for the first time in three days, immediately pulling Eliot into a hug, Eliot breathes a sigh of relief against his hair and holds him tight.

Quentin's mouth is already open to say, _I'm sorry_ , but before he can take the breath to say it, Eliot is saying, "Don't you dare apologize."

Quentin laughs, the feeling odd but familiar because it's so similar to a sob. He presses his face into Eliot's shoulder, not sure if he's going to cry, trying like hell to hold himself together.

"We should take a break from the puzzle today," Eliot says, his long fingers skirting over Quentin's back. "Teddy's with the grandparents until tomorrow; we could do something fun."

Quentin huffs against his shoulder. "I'm not exactly the most fun to be around, right now."

Eliot hums contemplatively, taking Quentin's hand and walking over to the daybed. Quentin follows without remark, stretching out and resting his head in Eliot's lap, as they've done so many times before. Eliot pulls his hair loose from its ponytail, working his fingers through the tangles that have gathered. "We could still take the day. I've been meaning to spend some time looking into the latest seasonal changes. There's a new outcropping of mushrooms I've never seen before up by the stream. I really want to find out if they're edible."

Quentin snorts, tilting his head forward to give Eliot better access to his hair. "In other words, you want to see if they're psychedelic mushrooms."

"Well, this is Fillory," Eliot points out. "If they're not poisonous, they're almost certainly psychedelic."

"Could be both." Quentin can feel every tug and shift Eliot makes with his hair, and it feels amazing, but with the way he's lying, he can feel the weight and smell the evidence of his unwashed hair. "God, I feel so gross. My hair is so oily. How can you stand to touch it?"

"I love your hair," Eliot says, and the statement punches Quentin in the gut with its sincerity. "Even when it's a tangled mess. I love how it unravels in my fingers."

Quentin whimpers, turning his face down toward Eliot's thigh. The slight pulls against his scalp feel heavenly, especially when Eliot's fingers move up every so often to soothe the sting.

"Why don't we go down to the stream?" Eliot suggests. "I can help you wash your hair, and then grab some mushrooms on the way back."

"In a minute," Quentin murmurs. "Don't wanna get up yet."

Eliot laughs and indulges him, playing with his hair and working on more of the tangles. Quentin closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the moment to just be.

***

Quentin tries not to be a needy mess as Eliot gathers everything they need for the stream, but he can't bear to be far from him right now. It's not that he feels he needs to make up for being so closed off the past few days—he probably should do that, though—but more that he's desperate to be near Eliot, to feel his touch again and know that Eliot still wants him. When Eliot slings the rucksack over his shoulder, leading Quentin out in the direction of the stream with a hand on the small of his back, Quentin is embarrassed to let out an involuntary whimper, the heat of Eliot's touch seeming to spread through his body.

He's pretty sure Eliot is onto him from that point, as he stays close to Quentin on their walk over, walking first with an arm slung around his waist, then moving to rest a hand on his shoulder when he has to shift the rucksack.

When they arrive at the stream, Eliot helps Quentin get undressed, pressing long kisses against his skin as he unwraps the shirt, unties the pants—searing points of contact against his shoulder, his chest, his hip, his thigh. Quentin bites his lip and closes his eyes, savoring every touch. He doesn't often feel beautiful, but when Eliot touches him like this, almost worshipful, he can almost imagine what Eliot sees.

Eliot doesn't undress right away. He leads Quentin up to the side of the stream, performing the tuts for a temporary stasis over their little alcove of the stream, and then for warming that portion of the water. "Go ahead and get in, baby," Eliot says, sweeping Quentin's hair out of the way and pressing his lips to the back of Quentin's shoulder. "I'll join you in a minute."

A low groan escapes from Quentin's mouth, unbidden, as he sinks into the water. Thanks to Eliot's magic, the water still moves, but in more of a steady circle than escaping downstream. It feels like he's in the world's best hot tub, the water easing muscles he didn't even realize were sore. Quentin takes a deep breath and dips under the surface, basking in the comforting heat of the water surrounding him until he has to come up for air. He rises back above the water, feeling like a burden he's been carrying for the past week has been lifted. He tilts his head back so that his long hair gathers over his back, out of his face, then looks up to find Eliot watching him.

Eliot looks caught out for barely a second, returning his attention to the ties at his waist before stripping down, his naked body highlighted by the sunlight filtering through the trees. Quentin watches him unabashedly as he walks into the water, and with a smirk, Eliot rests his hands on Quentin's hips and says, "Hi."

Quentin takes a step forward so that their bodies are nearly touching and he has to tilt his head up to hold Eliot's gaze. "Hi yourself."

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Eliot says, dipping his head down, his voice low against Quentin's ear. Quentin feels the nuzzle of his nose against his neck briefly before Eliot presses a kiss there.

Quentin swallows, trying to push past the guilt of the last few days. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Thank you for letting me," Eliot says.

For the first time since Eliot's joined him, Quentin takes in the little tray Eliot has floating in the water next to them. On top, he's got one of their simpler cups from the kitchen, a bar of the soap they've found works best on hair for both cleaning and conditioning, and something else in a little bag. Quentin goes to reach for the tray, to find out what's inside the bag, but Eliot distracts him, pulling him into a heated kiss.

Quentin whines as his mouth falls open, Eliot's tongue pressing inside instantly, stoking the fire in his belly as it curls around his tongue. He gasps as Eliot brings up a leg against his ass, pulling him closer, their bodies sealing together in the perfection of the warm water. His worry about Eliot not wanting him is starting to fade, though he'll always welcome the reassurance.

"Turn around, baby," Eliot says, his leg falling away, and Quentin fights not to whine at the loss. Eliot reaches for the tray as Quentin turns around, getting his feet back under him so that he can stand with his hair above the water.

He hears the rush of water as Eliot follows suit, and glances back to see him working the soap between his hands. The sweet-smelling earthy scent of the mixture hits him a few seconds later as it liquifies in Eliot's palms, and Eliot steps up to him, gesturing at him to turn around.

And then— _fuck_. Eliot's hands are on him, working the soap into a lather against his scalp, long fingers sliding through his hair and rubbing just hard enough to skirt the edge between pleasure and pain, leaving nothing but relief in their wake. " _Fuck_ , Eliot. Your hands."

"Yeah? Feels good?" Eliot asks, working the soap down to the ends of his hair, then running his fingers through it to smooth it. Quentin only hums in answer, a low rumble that seems to carry through the clearing. If he weren't in water, Quentin's not sure his legs would hold his weight right now, the whole of his focus on Eliot's touch and how it makes his blood rush, his breath come short.

Eliot returns his focus to Quentin's crown, fingers tracing small circles against his scalp. His thumbs dig into his nape, working out tension Quentin wasn't even aware of, and Quentin can only let his head fall forward and moan encouragingly.

"Ready to rinse?" Eliot asks, his hands dipping below the water and then back up to grasp Quentin's forearms.

"Mm," Quentin answers, mostly out of it. Eliot's asking him to do something, he thinks. Right. He leans back, Eliot shifting to help him dip his hair into the water, and then Eliot lifts him back out.

"That's it," Eliot says, and Quentin soon feels the pull of Eliot working through his remaining tangles. He spots the cup from the corner of his eye, moving with Eliot's telekinetic guidance to scoop up the water and rinse Quentin's hair methodically after he frees another tangle. 

"What's the other thing?" Quentin asks, finally remembering to ask about the mysterious bag on Eliot's tray.

"That's for after," Eliot says, and Quentin can hear the smile in his voice. "If you want."

"Mm, I probably want," Quentin says.

"Want me to braid it?" Eliot asks several fuzzy minutes later, combing his fingers through Quentin's hair with finality.

"Yeah. Just a little bit tight," Quentin says, and feels Eliot's lips against his crown.

"Don't worry. I know how you like it," Eliot assures him.

Quentin lets the grunts and gasps fall from his mouth as Eliot works his hair into a tight french braid, starting to feel overheated in the water as the little sparks of pleasure-pain threaten to overwhelm him. "God, you're so good to me," Quentin says, finally letting his hand drift down to his cock, moaning at the grip of his fist.

"Don't get too far ahead of me," Eliot murmurs, his voice a rumble by Quentin's ear.

"You should fuck me when you're done," Quentin says, a warm, satisfied feeling filling him when Eliot's fingers stutter in their task.

After a moment, Eliot chuckles, fingers back to expertly weaving his hair together. "You really think you'd last through all that prep? My fingers inside you, stretching you open?"

Quentin groans in frustration, even though Eliot is right. "You could do the spell. I'd be ready for you in seconds."

"You know I hate that spell," Eliot says, dipping a hand beneath the water and tracing a finger along Quentin's crease, stopping just before touches his rim. "It's uncomfortable for you, and it deprives me of seeing you wrecked from just my fingers, begging me to fill you up."

Quentin whines and tries to push up on his toes, get Eliot's finger where he wants it, but Eliot pulls his hand away, up, out of the water.

"No, we can take our time with that tonight," Eliot says resolutely. He floats a ribbon out of the little bag, then Quentin can feel him fastening his braid in place. He moves in behind Quentin, pressing up against his back so that Quentin can feel the long, hot touch of his hard cock. "For now, I just wanna feel you close."

Quentin whimpers, turning around and grabbing onto Eliot, surging up into a kiss as he lets Eliot take his weight in the water. His arms twine around Eliot's shoulders as Eliot sinks down further into the water, and in the next moment he's crossing his ankles behind Eliot's back, moaning as their cocks slide together.

"Look at you, so worked up," Eliot says with a wicked grin, moving away from his lips and tilting their foreheads together. He holds his hand up and a little vial floats out of the bag into his waiting palm.

"What's that?"

"Something I've been working on. A combination of extracts from things in our garden." He uncaps the bottle telekinetically, his other hand still spread over Quentin's back. "It should stay slick in the water."

Quentin swallows and brings one hand down from Eliot's neck so that Eliot can tip some of the oil-like substance into his palm. It warms instantly as Quentin rubs his fingers into it, and with his eyes intent on Eliot's, he reaches down to grip their cocks together.

Quentin bites his lip to hold in his reaction so he can take in Eliot's, his mouth falling open in a smile and a gasp as Quentin begins to stroke. Whatever this stuff is made out of, it's heavenly against his dick, leaving a lingering pressure even when his hand moves away. "Fuck yeah, Q, you feel so hot against me."

"It'll be better with both our hands," Quentin says, and slows down his strokes enough to let Eliot focus on pouring more of the precious liquid into his own palm, capping the bottle and floating it back to the safety of the tray.

And then— _fuck_ , he was right, it _is_ better this way, Eliot's long fingers meeting his to create a perfect channel for them to fuck into. They writhe against each other in the water, Quentin straining up for a kiss before he has to break away, trying and failing to get better leverage.

"Hold that thought," Eliot says, his hand moving away, and Quentin keeps moving his hips despite the fact that Eliot's perfect grip is gone.

Eliot is moving them through the water, up toward the side where the riverbank is high, and suddenly Quentin's back hits the cool earth as Eliot crowds him up against the bank. Like this, Quentin can dig his heels into Eliot's back and really move against him, their moans echoing through the trees as they find a rhythm to fuck against each other and into their collective grip.

"You make me feel so good," Quentin says, breathless. "I love you so fuckin' much. Kiss me? I wanna feel as close as possible to you when I come."

Eliot _growls_ and slides his hand behind Quentin's neck, pushing the braid aside to grip him there as he moves in for a fervent kiss. Quentin whines and rubs up against him frantically, his body running hot and cold, unable to land on a sensation as pleasure lights him up. He presses up to deepen their kiss, urging Eliot's hand to move faster as he drives toward the edge. He comes with a cry against Eliot's lips, his toes curling as his mind surrenders to utter bliss.

He's still coasting on that high, fucking against Eliot through the aftershocks, when Eliot's mouth goes slack against his, his hips snapping in a clear signal that he's close. Quentin tightens his grip, stroking with an intensity that's a bit much over his spent cock, but it's worth it to see Eliot fall apart as his orgasm rips through him.

They stay like that, pressed tight to each other, long after their breathing evens out and they fall into a familiar, sweet kiss. Eventually Quentin uncrosses his ankles, readjusts to get his feet under him again, but he doesn't move far.

Eliot presses a kiss to his temple. "I love you too, in case that wasn't clear."

Quentin giggles, then finds he can't stop, feeling his eyes crinkling as he shakes with laughter.

"Is that funny?" Eliot says, but he's smiling too.

"Sorry, I just—" He stops to take a breath, giggling once more before he manages to school his expression. "Feels like the understatement of the fucking century, after everything you just did for me. Like—I don't have words—to tell you how much it means to me."

"I'm not so great at words either," Eliot says, running a hand over Quentin's hair and tugging on the bottom part of the braid. "I just like to make you smile."

Quentin can't help it. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! <3


End file.
